


Kingdom Waking

by EnglishLanguage



Series: The Hollow Men (Exposition AU) [1]
Category: Tron (Movies), Tron - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety Attacks, Asexual Sam Flynn, Asexual Tron, Depression, Developing Relationship, Don't get caught off guard, Hopeful Ending, Other, Queerplatonic Relationships, Sam is not healthy, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, it's not subtle, it's there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 02:12:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18228518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnglishLanguage/pseuds/EnglishLanguage
Summary: In which Sam Flynn isn't coping and doesn't learn how to cope, but everything starts to come together regardless.





	Kingdom Waking

**Author's Note:**

> "Is it like this  
> In death's other kingdom  
> Waking alone  
> At the hour when we are  
> Trembling with tenderness  
> Lips that would kiss  
> Form prayers to broken stone."  
> \- T.S. Eliot

Sam Flynn quivers like a leaf.

Like he’s something thin and fragile and ready to be torn apart from his ragged edges.

Like he could run hands up his stairway of narrow ribs, catch onto sweeping collarbones and _snap_ them; pull apart his back and shoulders down the length of his spine and shiver his soul right out of this gaunt and brittle skeleton.

Instead, he catches onto collarbones, ducks his head and digs knuckles into his throat, and tries to press weight like an embrace into his chest with the heels of his palms. He has to steady himself and his hands so that he can keep going, because as it is, with what he’s done so far, there isn’t enough _proof._

The tremors originate from his mouth, from the trembling muscles in his lips and chin- but he’s clenched his jaw because the sound of teeth chattering is deafening in his head, so the tremors just migrate down into his limbs until he’s lightly quaking all over. His legs jerk like he’s been tapped under the knees with a hammer. His chest squeezes out gasps of breath so shallow and choked and jarring that his stomach heaves, and he thinks he’ll be sick…

Good. Sickness is pain, and he deserves pain; he deserves more pain than he can ever manage to inflict upon himself.

In the end, he is only a squeamish, worthless coward. And a wreck. Frick, he can’t even bear to look at himself right now, all broken up and ugly sobbing. His face itches across his sweating, greasy forehead, and from his cheeks down to the corners of his jaw, where tears have smeared heat and drying, gummy salt over his skin like a rash. His hands and knuckles are _dripping_ with snot from his attempts to wipe off his face- now, the fluid just leaks, unchecked, out his nose and over his lips, mixing with saliva when he spews it out over his chin with another cut-short, disgusting wail.

Sam is supposed to be able to do this.

He’s supposed to hold himself still long enough to pick that slim piece of metal off the floor and hold it to his skin and…

 _Screw everything._ Screw himself, most of all, for being so stupid and babyish and utterly useless. Arms tucked into his torso, knees pulled up to his chest, he’s a trembling, flimsy cocoon, completely exposed: naked, coated in his own spit and tears, blood cooling and sticking in the creases between his hips and the front of his thighs. Anyone could walk in on him and he would have nowhere to hide.

_Isn’t that the point?_

No. _No_ , he isn't that selfish or manipulative; he can’t be… He’s doing this because he deserves to suffer for his existence, and most of all because he wants the proof of his punishment etched into him, permanently. Maybe he’s even doing this because he likes to see the blood, paler and more uneven in color than he would’ve imagined it and unexpectedly heavy, sliding in rivulets down his legs- it reminds him that this reality is legitimate and Sam is alive, and for that reason the blood is perfect _._

Sam’s got his reasons, so he knows that he has never been an attention-seeker. And there is no way that he’s starting that now.

(Except the front door slams shut downstairs, and Sam knew that Alan would resort to this when he refused to answer his godfather’s calls, so why didn’t he clean himself up before this happened? Why is the bathroom door not even locked, why…?)

A blubbering moan coagulates in his throat until he gags on it, blinking out more tears and-  _heck,_ his eyes feel raw and sore under the eyelids.

There are footsteps on the stairs, unmistakable; he needs to take action, do something and not just let this happen. But Sam’s brain just hiccups, muzzy and thick in his skull, stuttering like he’s hysterical or manic or maybe high…

“Sam?”

Move _. Do something._

If reality exists in the form of a multiverse, there exists an alternate world in which he stands up and locks the door, an alternate world where he sits here, passive and pointless, an alternate world where he never got himself into this mess to begin with. A million alternate worlds, and maybe he can just give in to wonder- sit in catatonia forever and think about what it’s like for Sam Flynn in those other worlds. Because he doesn’t know, for the life of him, what choices to make now, and the uncertainty is debilitating.

“Sam, where are you?”

“H-” The word disintegrates in the back of his throat. _He can’t talk._  The world is wrong somehow, and horrible things will happen if he tries to keep existing in it.

But he's here, in here… in the bathroom. Waiting to be found, mind fractured with terror.

Tron already knows. He’s seen the scars. It’s Sam’s only consolation- the program won’t walk in and be blown completely out of the water by this new revelation, some new knowledge of an addictionthat's so difficult to understand. Tron knows, but that doesn’t mean he won’t be disappointed. That doesn’t mean that Tron won’t be repulsed.

Sam won’t blame him when it happens.

The doorknob turns- and stops. A hand raps against wood, the noise gentle and patient, and the voice… Tron’s voice is quiet, unafraid. “I… know you’re in there, Sam. If- if you don’t tell me what to do, I’m going to open the door.”

No, by all means, come in… Sam has no way of preventing it. He bites down on a sob, curling one lip between his teeth and tensing his jaw _hard._

The doorknob turns again, and this time it goes all the way; opens with a click.

Tron is wearing Alan’s clothes and (to enough of an extent) Alan’s face, but Sam is n’t mortified to death like he would be if it were Alan. The fact… surprises him. Tron’s face betrays nothing as the program scans blankly up and down Sam’s body, as if Tron had been expecting this. The lack of reaction is surprising as well, maybe even more so.

It has to be sudden to work; to get past his mental block on movement- Sam throws his head back against the wall, squints against the glare of the ceiling light until all he can see is the vague figure of Tron, warped through a miasma of tears.

Tron sighs; leans back against the sink counter. “Hello, Sam.”

Sam tries to respond- he really does- but his throat closes up around another, shuddering sob, he digs his nails into his clavicles, and the only thing that escapes him is a soggy whimper.

“You’re injured.”

" _Ye_ _ah,_ ” he whispers, finally. The sound barely passes muster, and his whole body seizes up in irrational fear immediately after. He definitely should not be talking; shouldn’t ever talk again.

He doesn’t think he imagines the flicker in Tron’s circuits, burning a question down his arm and fingers with a flare of neon blue-white. ‘Why are you doing this?’ Or- maybe- ‘what _happened_?’

Tron asks no questions, though. The program dips his head like he can’t stand to keep it up anymore; growls “Users  _glitch_ it” into his chest like something there personally offended him…

“Well.” Sam’s voice is shredded. “That’s- that’s one way to greet your best friend.”

The other’s face softens. It’s a subtle thing; big, tough security program armors his every emotion with hard sobriety, often faint irritation, but Sam has always held the inexplicable privilege of being able to get under Tron’s shell. Unfortunately, Sam doesn’t even know how to cope with his own emotions right now, let alone whatever Tron’s bringing to the table.

A dull, aching shiver lurches up one arm, and Sam thinks about moving it.

Yeah, he _could_ move his arm, shift it, brush up against the wall and remember that his skin isn’t dying, sloughing off and peeling up from the tips of his numb, stiffened fingers. But what if he never does? If he stays frozen, instead?

He isn’t the one who moves, in the end. Solemnly cautious, Tron crouches down to Sam’s level, then lowers himself again until he’s sitting, cross-legged and silently concerned. The sudden urge grips Sam feverishly: he wants to scream. He wants to rip the virulent, twitching self-hatred out of his own body and throw it in Tron’s face, he wants to...

A sob _rips_ out of his lungs and he’s left coughing, whole body tipping forward and hacking out the pain that the sound left behind as it scraped through his vocal cords and up through his trachea.

Tron’s hands anchor around Sam- one around his upper arm, the other just behind his neck- and the _touch_ … Frick, the contact and the pressure and everything is too much; it’s too much of a promise of relief that he can’t have. He needs to reject it. He needs to hurt himself.

But Tron’s strength has him pinned to the wall. Tron’s eyes, searching but unable to meet Sam’s averted gaze, have him pinned to his own, rancid shame.

He won’t be shocked if he looks up and he finds irritation or disgust in Tron’s face. He won’t be- but he’ll be destroyed, and he doesn’t think he can ever come back from that. So he doesn’t look, not at all.

“It’s not a way to greet my best friend.” Tron’s hand, the one cupped at the base of Sam’s skull, eases his head back until he’s completely braced against the wall again, still panting and whining and _sniveling._ He can’t stop himself. “...It’s _more_ than that, Sam; it’s a way to greet my dedicated pair. It’s a way to tell you that I’m here now, and I’m going to take care of you.”

Sam _doesn’t_ understand. “I-I… I…” Pure anguish oozes out of his heart and into his mouth; pools on his tongue with the metallic taste of vomit. He lets the pain slip out of him with a quiet, unsteady hiss.

“Shh. Relax.” Coaxing hands pry Sam’s fingers out of the hollows behind his collarbones, and for a second he is completely lost, unhinged. His hands are crooked with cramps from wrists to fingertips. There’s something surreal about watching it happen- about seeing his red-stained, snot-soaked hands, shaking like the palsy, being held so tenderly against the front of Tron’s shirt until Sam’s brain catches up and allows him to seize the fabric in his fists.

“Alan_One… _Alan..._ came to find me,” Tron murmurs, running the pad of his thumb over the back of Sam’s hand. “He said he was worried about you.” His thumb slips between two of Sam’s knuckles, kneading the area between the bones.

Sam scoffs. It sounds less derisive than just… desperate and wet. “Yeah- Alan worries.”

 _"I_ worry. You’re hurting yourself. Why?”

“Dunno. I _dunno, Tron…”_

He can’t do this. His heart is throbbing too fast, his blood is too hot and his sweat is too cold as it breaks out all across his squirming skin.

“Stop. Sam, stop- You have to breathe; users need to breathe to live.”

But he can’t breathe even if he needs to...

“Breathe- please.”

He _can’t._

Suddenly Tron is hauling him into his lap, hands hooking around Sam’s lower back and behind one thigh, and Sam is _abruptly_ reminded that he isn’t wearing any clothes.

Fresh scabs, in stripes clear down both legs, crack open. He can’t restrain the pained, tremulous gulp of air that he sucks in.

“Good. Now breathe _out_.”

The exhale slams out of him in two, disjointed parts, and he has to try three times before the next inhale takes hold in his throat. Each breath is a sob, and each sob is a broken mess of Sam’s hoarse, cracking voice and low, harsh moans and snotty tears seeping into the neck of Tron’s shirt.

Tron’s palm soothes over his spine, stroking up into his sweat-drenched hair, and the caress feels so good. It burns him like rubbing alcohol poured where he’s most hollow, in a part of Sam that was starved of affection and never expected to receive it, that’s always raw and bloody and irritated like an open abscess.

A part of him where Sam is stupidly, humiliatingly broken-hearted…

His next sobs come out panicked, escalated into screams.

It doesn’t take long before the unintelligible shrieks become words.

“You left me, you left me, you _left…”_ He is awful. Gross. So selfish. Tron is allowed to make his own decisions, and Sam isn’t supposed to get all wound up about the actions of a  _single_ person.

Only… it wasn’t just Tron. It was Quorra, too, who wanted to visit the Grid, and Alan, who’s always busy and has to go to China tonight for a work trip. Sam doesn’t have anyone else to care about or anyone to trust, because he’s an unlovable, screwed-up brat and a _whore._

Does Tron even want to be with him right now?

Does he feel _obligated_ to take care of Sam?

Sam explodes into movement like he’s never had difficulty with it in his life; struggles against the arms secured tightly around him.

“Don’t fight me. Don’t… _I’m not going to leave you, Sam!_ ”

“Screw you,” he spits, and doesn’t mean a word of it- because this? This is all Sam’s fault. “Screw you, Tron.”

If the program has any sense, he’ll leave now. Sam will pick up the blade- better yet, find a bigger one- and he’ll fix everything so that no one ever has to _deal_ with him again.

“I’m not leaving you. I won’t let go.”

Sam fights until he can’t anymore, until his frail, _user_ body gives out against Tron’s inhuman strength and his determination gives out to the unbearable comfort of warmth wrapped around his entire body, keeping him close. Sam deflates; sags against the monitor. As he drops, his nose smears down Tron’s chest, and the program's hands on the small of his back the only things holding him up at all.

“You left,” he cries.

“I know.”

“And… A-A-And that’s okay _._ I was so _stupid_. Just started thinking that… that everyone left me and no one asked if I wanted to c-come with, and…” He sniffles, shifting his face to a dry spot of Tron’s shirt.

“And what, Sam?” Broad hands rub up and down his back again, stopping just short of the massive patches of dry blood caked over his hips.

“And maybe you didn’t want me,” he squeaks. “Maybe you were just pretending the whole time, and I was too dumb to notice.”

Tron doesn’t hesitate for a second. “ _Never_. I will always want you, no matter what happens.”

“No matter i-i-if I’m like this? A… a _worthless_ piece of-“

“Yes, no matter if you’re like this. _Users_ , Sam Flynn, how do you not realize that you are worth everything to me?”

“Do you know-“ Sam grits his teeth, enamel scraping over enamel with a horrible squeal. “Do you know how _hard_ it is for me to believe that?” Too low, his voice gives out halfway through.

Tron tightens his hold around Sam, fingers clenching against his shoulder blades with sudden, ferocious force- the program releases his bruising grip immediately, fingers going deliberately loose and soft against Sam’s back. “I understand completely.” It’s an appropriate coincidence that the slightest sound of Rinzler’s growl finally begins to bleed into the response. “After… After Clu. You said you would believe in me until I learned to believe in myself, because you _love_ me.”

Sam really does. He loves Tron with the inadequate entirety of his devotion and loyalty; sometimes, he feels like he might explode with the effort of containing so much emotion in the atrophied depths of his heart. Other times, he thinks that his love for the program resides out of his body, instead of within, because it all bears down on his shoulders until he’s curled up- shriveled- under the weight of it. It’s a wild, incomprehensible sentiment: without limit, without any edges or corners that Sam could grab hold of and control.

“I love you.” Tron finishes. “And I will believe in your value for you while you cannot. Someday, I will find a way to make you believe in it, too.”

Tron’s hand finally ventures downwards, smoothing over Sam’s flank before curving around his hip, settling over the gashes that crosshatch his skin from his iliac crest to a spot halfway down this thigh. Most have already begun to puff up around the edges, blood drying in a dark, tacky mass around each cut. Some- the deeper ones- are still weeping freely, and the liquid squelches viscerally (Sam feels it more than he hears it) when the program presses down on them.

“These need to be… cleaned?”

“Hm.” He doesn’t think it’s from the bloodloss- more likely, it’s a result of the adrenaline- but he’s gone all shocky, mind buzzing until bursts of faded static swim across his vision. Sam doesn’t realize that his head was lolling until Tron’s other hand transfers from his shoulder to the back of his skull, tucking Sam back into the safety of Tron’s throat. “Y-yes. Cleaned.”

The concept of disinfection isn’t one that should be familiar to a program, and it strikes Sam that Tron must have researched this; he had been concerned enough about user injuries to go to the trouble of learning how to take care of them.

“Let go of the shirt, Sam, let… Good, now put your arms around my neck.” Tron readjusts his grip one more time, placing both hands on Sam’s spine, and stands, pulling Sam to his feet. The program props him up as his entire body buckles, dissolves into trembling and tries to puddle on the floor. He’s spun around bodily and lifted up an inch- skin dragging painfully under Tron’s grasp- until he finds himself balanced on the edge of the counter, bent over double and gasping through dizzy nausea into the crook of Tron’s shoulder.

The counter is _cold_ against the backs of his thighs.

He feels Tron moving before he hears the sink turn on somewhere behind him. His program reaches for something- a towel, off the towel rack- and holds it under the water. Droplets hit ceramic in a hard spray at first, before the sound mutes into a soft, heavy bass as the fabric soaks.

“May I?”

Forcing himself somewhat upright, Sam squeezes his eyes shut until tears clear away, then looks Tron… not in the eye, but in the chin. Tron is holding a hand towel, a fresh one that Sam definitely has not used. When did _that_ towel get in his bathroom? Quorra must have straightened up before she left, or maybe Tron. Sam just hasn’t been at home enough to mess up the bathroom; he’s honestly tried his best to drown himself with work at ENCOM.

“Yeah, go ‘head.”

The towel wipes under his jaw, rough and sodden with warmth _._ Tron tugs it over Sam’s mouth and under his nose, mopping up tears and mucus and the icy sweat that’s beaded in his hair, right at his temples. The action is so gentle, so _careful_ when it doesn’t even have to be- Sam’s chest twists in on itself, and he barks out a sharp, warbling cry before his brain catches up and remembers that he’s supposed to be quiet now; supposed to be calm and grateful and not a ruin of a human being.

Sam chases the towel when Tron takes it away, head bobbing forward until his neck gives up and he falls on Tron’s shoulder again. The wet towel hits the counter with a slap, and Tron reaches for another one; sticks it under the faucet.

There’s no way the program can directly see what he’s doing from his position: Tron faces Sam head-on to support his body weight, but his hand and the towel slip down, out of sight, between Sam’s thigh and Tron’s torso.

“Are you looking in the mirror?” Sam turns around a bit, and yes- Tron has a view of Sam’s injuries from the mirror; sponges blood off Sam’s leg with water and what looks like a little soap, relying completely on mirror-eye-hand coordination… Their eyes meet briefly through the reflections, and Sam looks away. “This is ridiculous,” he chuckles- his laugh is watery though, and bleakly stunted. “Could’ve just asked me to sit up.”

Tron huffs in amusement, switching to Sam’s other leg. “You were comfortable.”

Sam lowers himself back into Tron’s neck, nuzzling into the bright heat of a sprawl of circuits creeping up over the top Tron’s shoulder where the shirt’s been pushed askew. “Guess so.”

It isn’t all comfortable, though. He’s still completely bare-skinned, shivering lightly with persistent panic, in pain, too vulnerable in every way- even though he _knows_ Tron has seen him in worse states than this. Sam has seen Tron in worse states, too.

This isn’t Clu. This isn’t as bad as Clu, not even close, which means Sam can survive it. This is endurable, even if he feels like he wants to die in a hole because Tron walked in on him and Sam let it happen. Tron knows how weak and wretched Sam is. Tron hasn’t really reacted yet and Sam is still waiting to be abandoned…

“It’s rubbing alcohol next,” he suggests. 

“No.” Tron sets down the second, blood-stained towel. “The injuries are clean. You don't have to go through more pain.”

“I haven’t gone through enough of _anything_ , Tron.”

The program has done nothing to warrant Sam’s frustration, and he holds his breath until the fear-addled anger subsides, no longer gnawing so rabidly at his gut. “...Sorry.”

Tron doesn’t respond, probably doesn’t even blame Sam, just tips his head so that his cheek rests on top of Sam’s hair.

“It’s just… I went deep, okay?” _Not deep enough. Wimp._ “I don’t want to get an infection.”

“Is there Isopropyl alcohol?” Tron asks softly, fondly accepting.

“You know about Isprop...? Whatever. Cabinet. To your lef- _my_ left. Your right.”

Sam shuts up and crushes his jaw closed, trying to bury himself farther into Tron’s skin and not getting anywhere. The cabinet opens with a snick, taps closed, and the lid of the alcohol rattles on the counter. He thinks Tron picks up one of the towels again; he can hear the alcohol gurgling as it sloshes onto something…

Tron compresses the reddened towel against Sam's thigh.

“Ah… _gah.”_ Sam’s vision flashes orange with scorching pain, and he curls up into himself until he’s almost leaning right off the counter. “Mmh.”

“Sam?”

He pushes a couple lungs' worth of air out through his teeth. “‘S alright. I’m alright; I'm fine.”

“Other side, Sam.”

This time, Tron rubs his back through the peak of the agony, and Sam cuts off any sound beyond an initial grunt that he can’t quite control.

His eyes well up with pain, and he waits until the urge to cry diminishes before lifting his head. Tron backs away, except for one hand that he places on the front of Sam’s shoulder and (of frickin' course) Sam craves the physical contact, the warmth and weight of Tron's whole figure wrapped around him. His chest heaves, and he wants to keen from the acute torment of loss. Which is so feeble of him, so disgusting and  _needy._

In the end, Sam is always a burden.

Tron opens the cabinet again and fishes out a thing of gauze, already half-used and splotched with old, maroon fingerprints at the tattered end. Wasting no time, Tron binds Sam’s legs with wide swaths of the fabric, every motion clinical even if the bandaging itself doesn't come across as professional. Tron hesitates- and then improvises a tie around Sam’s waist to hold it all in place. It all seems functional, and Sam’s never been one for qualified medical care, anyway.

“Is this enough? Users work differently than programs, I apologize if..."

“Might need stitches,” Sam admits with a sigh, cutting him off. “Give it a few days; I can do it myself if something isn’t healing right.” Stitches suck _._  Which brings Sam back to the point that he is not, in any way, a medical professional qualified to give himself stitches, but he has picked up some things living on the streets and will  _not_ be going to a hospital.He pushes aside the physical pain (as if ignoring it will save him from stitches), and focuses on his fear, his worry.

He indulges himself with a deep breath, trying to clear up the tremor in his voice before he just _goes_ for it. “Spit it out, okay? Whatever it is, I can take it.”

“Clarify request.”

“How do you feel about…” He gestures to himself: the blood already staining the edges of the bandages, the shallower, swollen scratches that remain uncovered, the brindled tangle of old scars raised upon his skin… heck, even his nakedness, because if that isn’t proof that he’s got no dignity, no shame, then nothing is. “About all this? How are you planning to- I don't know- fix me?” He doesn’t want to be fixed, doesn’t want to be someone’s project, someone’s responsibility. It’s not because of how it will hurt Sam- he already knows that he’s dead weight, and at this point, Sam will take any relationship he can get. He’d be a tool or a toy or a… a friggin’ punching bag or  _anything_ , just to have another person in his life. The problem is that he knows he’s useless. He knows that he’d let down Tron in any and every capacity, as a project or something less or- if Tron is telling the truth about his feelings- something more. No, Sam can’t bring himself to force his problems onto the person he loves most.

“You don’t sound as if you want to be fixed,” Tron pushes.

“I don’t. I don’t ever want to get better, or ever want to  _stop._ This is how I’m still alive. How am I supposed to give that up?” The self-harm is how he remembers that he’s real, that the world would keep going on even if he dies, so what's the point of ending it if he can't end it all? It’s how he staves off his want to rip himself into shreds, eat a gun, do _anything_ to punish himself permanently for being born.

“Sam, I’m not asking you to stop.”

“Then _what_ do you _want?_ ” Oh, awesome, Sam is crying- again.

“You are thinking too far into the future. Don’t.” Tron draws back, hands only hovering over Sam. Sam wants to jump forward, wants to shove his shoulders up into the heat of Tron’s embrace, but he can’t. He’s not allowed to be selfish anymore; he’s used up his quota for a year, at least.

_He wants to be held so badly…_

“What I want is…” Tron considers for a second, Rinzler’s faint snarl swelling and ebbing deep in his throat before it lapses into total silence. Finally, Tron’s hands fall on Sam’s hunched shoulders, clamping down over muscles drawn taut and aching. “What I want is for you, every single, separate time that you decide to hurt yourself, to think about coming to me. I want you to not worry about stopping forever and start thinking about just trying to stop once. Twice. Whenever you want to.”

“And you’ll… what, be there with me? Pretend you’re okay with it?”

“Users above, Sam, I will do _anything_. I will convince you to put the blade down. I will wait for you to finish and help you clean up after. I will sit beside you as you hurt yourself, and I will hold you, and you will know- from the nerve endings under your skin to the most internal feelings of your heart- that you are _not alone.”_

Tron’s eyes are blazing, the blue of his irises vivid and oversaturated like fire and bruises and the snap of lightning.

“Tell me what do do, user. That’s all I need.”

Sam Flynn quivers…

He stares into Tron’s eyes and knows that the program is stricken, distraught and hopelessly honest in love, because Sam recognizes that emotion on his own face when he looks in the mirror and thinks of Tron.

“Hug me?” His chin trembles, and he screws up his face stiffly, trying to stop the tears before they start. “Please.”

Tron eases him off the counter, gathers Sam to his chest and holds him so tightly that Sam can hardly breathe. The energy coursing through Tron’s body hums in Sam’s ear, relaxed and free-flowing, nearly subliminal in sound. It travels along the paths of the circuits that line Tron’s fingers and arms, percolating blissful heat into Sam's skin. “Tron, you’re _here_.”

“...I am.” Tron seems faintly concerned by the statement; if Sam weren’t so drained, he’d probably snicker at that.

As it is, he has enough energy to love, to cling to his program- his dedicated pair- with all his strength. And he thinks that he can probably begin to believe that Tron really does love Sam in return.

 


End file.
